


the crowds in my heart, they’ve been calling out your name

by sublimity



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, it’s quentin’s dad and it’s only mentioned once but just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 06:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17893124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublimity/pseuds/sublimity
Summary: They weren’t two halves meant to complete each other, Quentin and Eliot — they were their own people, with matching scars, a similar ache etched deep into their bones, and identical demons living behind their eyelids. It was as close to a soul connection as one could get.





	the crowds in my heart, they’ve been calling out your name

**Author's Note:**

> did i type all of this out in one day instead of writing my 12 page academic paper? maybe. do i regret it? only slightly. anyway, not to be dramatic, but the magicians brought back my will to live and made it all worth it. title is from talk by kodaline

_Peaches and plums._ They spent half a century together, discovering the beauty of all life, and nothing would ever be the same. They lived. They died. They remembered.

“We had a family,” Eliot exhaled, images of past life flashing in the forefront of his mind, and Quentin swallowed. _Yeah_ , he thought. _Yeah, we did._

There had always been an odd dancing around one another element with them, only intensified by the damned threesome with Margo, but neither had ever really done anything about it. It had been an unspoken thing between the two of them, limited only to a few meaningful glances here and there, unwavering devotion, and all the words unsaid, unthought. It hadn’t been their time.

Hadn’t _been_. And then it was. It was, and it was _beautiful_.

They weren’t two halves meant to complete each other, Quentin and Eliot — they were their own people, with matching scars, a similar ache etched deep into their bones, and identical demons living behind their eyelids. It was as close to a soul connection as one could get.

Quentin looked at Eliot, his dark curls slightly ruffled, his lips curved into a weary smile, handsome and full of youth, and thought, _maybe this is our chance_ , letting his feelings slip from the tip of his tongue in a jolt of bravery, his head dizzy.

What followed was something that, he would realize afterwards, he had expected the least. Eliot eyed him guiltily, uncertainty shaping his features, blurting out things that didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense.

“Not when we have a choice,” he said, the words ringing in Quentin’s ears. Eliot didn’t want him. Eliot wasn’t going to choose him, not here and not now.

Quentin would have to live with that.

 

*

 

He told Julia in the midst of it all, the two of them sprawled together on a couch, talking about anything and everything, just like the old times. Like the world wasn’t slowly collapsing around them with each passing moment.

“We lived a _life_ together, Jules, he and I. Fifty years. I had a wife, and I had Eliot, and we raised a son together. We had _grandkids_. We watched each other grow old and gray, and we were _happy_. I mean, can you imagine?” he huffed out a laugh, short and bittersweet, his stomach curling at the memories.

“That you’re a seventysomething old man now, apparently?” Julia asked, looking at him. There was a mischievous grin playing at her mouth.

“Oh, shut up,” Quentin murmured, shoving a pillow in her face. He was smiling, too. Julia had always had a knack for making him do that. Had always known when he needed it most.

Comfortable silence fell between them for a short while. Quentin was the first to break it.

“Jules,” he said quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn her head, studying his face, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. He didn’t meet her gaze. He didn’t speak, either.

“Q,” she then said, her voice gentle, patient. He swallowed the lump in his throat, looking up.

“I just don’t get it,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I offered my heart to him, and he didn’t want it, Jules. Why didn’t he want it?” he asked, uncertain and small, searching for some kind of answer in her eyes. There wasn’t one. “We were so fucking _good_ together. When I kissed him on our first anniversary there, it felt like everything between us had been leading up to that moment. Like it was always meant to happen. Like we were always meant to be. And I know we didn’t really have anyone else, not until Arielle, but I just— I know it’s stupid, but I think… even if the entire humankind had been there with us, I’d still have chosen him,” he confessed, his last words close to a whisper, his hands white-knuckling around the blanket he was holding. “I mean, he must have felt it, too. We loved each other, thick and thin, I still—” _I still do_ , he didn’t say. Eliot didn’t want his love. How pathetic. “Nevermind. I guess that chapter of our lives really is long over.”

Julia held out a hand, her doe eyes warm, kind, understanding. She did always understand him best, after all. Quentin clasped their hands together without a second thought, letting her warmness flow through his veins.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” she suggested. “Eliot really cares about you, Q, it’s pretty clear that he does. So why don’t you tell him everything you just told me and give him a chance to fix things? Next thing you know, he might even surprise you.”

Her voice sounded oddly confident, Quentin thought, but he didn’t want confidence. Not now, with his heart torn to shreds and embarrassment threatening to swallow him whole each time Eliot spared a glance at him.

“There’s nothing to fix,” he murmured, brows furrowing. “Even if there is, _I_ was the one who ruined it. I ruined what we had and nothing’s ever gonna be the same between us now. Just another thing broken beyond repair by Quentin Coldwater.”

“Don’t say that,” she pleaded softly, tightening her grip around his hand. “It’s not true.”

“You know,” he said, looking off into the distance, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as peaceful as I did then, solving the mosaic with Eliot, and I really thought— I don’t know, is it selfish that I wanted that feeling back?” Quentin breathed out, meeting her eyes, desperation seeping through his voice.

Julia leaned closer, putting both arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He melted into the hug, hiding his face in the crook of her neck.

“No, Q,” she whispered. “It’s not selfish.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed her.

 

*

 

All hell broke loose, the Library owned magic now, everyone forgot their old lives, and there was a monster walking in Eliot’s skin, wearing Eliot’s face, and observing the world through Eliot’s eyes. Quentin — _Brian?_ — was his unwilling accomplice, the two of them stuck together, and it was really rather ironic, once you thought about it.

Then suddenly Quentin was himself again, thousands of memories washing over him like a tidal wave, familiar pair of hazel eyes studying his face. Except they were inexplicably wrong. The eyes.

They all — _but one_ — were back together, trying their damnedest to save the world and stop the monster that stole their friend’s body. Quentin’s dad passed away, and he knew it had nothing to do with the unlucky teddy bear, because that was just the way his life worked. Everything and everyone around him always ended up in ruins. He crushed them all. His mom had a point.

“Your friend Eliot is dead,” the Monster said, and Quentin couldn’t breathe, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him to death. _No_ , he thought, _no, it can’t be. Not Eliot, he can’t be._ He was.

Alice — of all people — turned up at his door not long after, announcing his own death sentence, and Quentin thought that maybe it was for the better. She helped him draw blood from the stone to kill the Monster two days earlier than his book said he would, desperate to redeem herself, eager to save his life. Quentin didn’t tell her he didn’t care about that.

The Monster was walking in Eliot’s skin, wearing Eliot’s face, and observing the world through Eliot’s eyes. They were always wrong, though. The eyes. Eliot’s used to carry his spark inside their hazel warmth everywhere he went. The Monster’s eyes were soulless. All wrong.

Except now they were right.

“Q,” the creature in front of him said, and to be fair, a lot of people called him Q, but _that tone_ — by now, he thought, he’d recognize it anywhere. Quentin swallowed. _It can’t be._

“Q,” he repeated. “It’s me. It’s Eliot.”

_Not funny._

“Okay, no games, come on. Let’s just go,” he managed to say despite the lump in his throat, going for the most nonchalant tone he could possibly pull off.

“It’s Eliot,” the Monster insisted, and the worst thing was that he sounded _genuine_. Quentin clenched his hand into a fist, fingers digging into his palm, praying for the physical pain to wash away the unwanted thoughts.

“No, bullshit. Come on,” he sighed, annoyance rising in him.

And then.

“Fifty years. Who gets proof of concept like that?”

Just like that, it was as if all air had been kicked out of his lungs in an instant. Was this some sort of sick joke? Did the Monster decide to mess with Quentin’s head, pulling just the right strings?

“ _What?_ ”

“Peaches and plums, motherfucker,” he breathed out. “I’m alive in here.”

His voice was desperate, the look in his eyes just _right_ , and had it been anything else, any other choice of words, and Quentin wouldn’t have believed it, would’ve wiped the Monster out of existence without a second thought or died trying. Except it wasn’t the Monster. It was—

“Eliot,” he exhaled, instinctively leaning forward, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. Eliot wasn’t gone. _He wasn’t gone._ The words he had said — he remembered Quentin, remembered _them_ —

Alice. Oh, crap.

 

*

 

They failed to fulfill Iris’ task, Shoshana got sliced apart with a single motion of fingers, Julia losing her loyal follower, and the Monster got one step closer to his wish, but Quentin felt something ignite inside of him that wasn’t there for what seemed like a very long time.

 _Hope_ was burning bright and hot in his stomach. Of course Eliot couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. _He wasn’t._ He was still in there, fighting with all his might, and damn them all if they didn’t fight like hell for him, too. They would save him.

Quentin would, if it was the last thing he did.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://quentincoldwaters.tumblr.com) let’s yell at each other about queliot


End file.
